


Truce

by jaradel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Book canon compliant, F/M, Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry has some loose ends to tie up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truce

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote years ago, after I read Deathly Hallows but before the films came out. This is canon-compliant with the book but not the films. Unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine.

                The early morning sun streamed through the now curtain-less windows of the seventh-year boys’ room in Gryffindor tower the morning after the battle. It found its way to the four-poster occupied by a lanky, raven-haired man with two days’ worth of stubble on his face, desperately trying to keep the intrusive light at bay with a pillow over his head. Finally conceding defeat, the man tossed the pillow aside and sat up, stretching and yawning after a much-needed night of sleep. Opening his startling green eyes, he surveyed the room, realizing that his myopic vision gave his surroundings a decidedly fuzzy appearance. Reaching for his familiar wire-frame glasses, he put them on, and the world came into focus. A jarring sound not unlike that of a diesel-powered lorry rumbling by caught his attention; a slight turn of his head (which, after the previous day’s events, took decidedly more effort than usual) identified the source as his ginger-haired best friend, passed out on the next bed over. He grinned. _Some things never change,_ he thought, but the grin faded quickly. _Maybe that’s a good thing after all._

                He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, feeling every ache of every muscle group involved in that simple movement. Crossing the room, he stopped in front of the mirror and took stock of his appearance. More surprising than the bruises, scrapes, burns and scars scattered over his body was the developed musculature of his upper body and his legs. He hadn't realized that the events of the past year had finally fleshed out his frame, though no one would ever mistake him for being stocky – his father’s genes ensured that he would always tend toward a thinner, wiry physique. Also surprising was the length of his hair, and the way that the unruly locks tended to have a mind of their own, curling over his collar and sticking out every which way, as if he’d just come in from a windy day. Running a hand through his hair did nothing to improve the situation. A hot shower was definitely in order.

                “Kreacher?”

                There was a soft crack as the wizened house-elf appeared, bowing low. “Master Harry, you are up and about early. Kreacher did not expect to see you so soon. What can Kreacher do for Master Harry?”

                Harry cleared his throat. “Could you find me a spare change of clothes, please? I need to take a shower. After that I reckon I’ll have breakfast. Are they serving breakfast in the Great Hall today?”

                Kreacher bowed low again. “Yes, Master Harry, breakfast will be served shortly. Kreacher will fetch you clothes from home. Master Harry and his friends left so suddenly so many months ago. Kreacher was lonely, but Kreacher kept everything ready for Master Harry and his friends. Will Master Harry be coming home soon?” the elf asked, with a hopeful tone in his bullfrog voice.

                Harry pondered that question. _Home._ It was such a strange word. Home had once meant a place to which he dreaded to return, a place where he was berated or ignored. Home also meant a bustling, oddly-shaped residence in Ottery St. Catchpole, where the family of both his best friend and his girlfriend lived, a family who had always treated him as one of their own. Home was also the place he was standing in now, his room in Gryffindor Tower, an escape from the disapproval of his only living relatives. But Grimmauld Place – could he truly call it home? Could the ghosts of the past be laid to rest, and the house of his godfather be transformed into a true home for Harry, a home of his own? He shook himself out of his reverie and looked at Kreacher, whose wistful gaze was filled with hope. Kreacher had done more than prove his loyalty to Harry – he had been willing to lay down his life for him. If someone had told Harry two years ago that one day Kreacher would be as devoted to him as Dobby once was, he’d have laughed in their face. As Harry regarded Kreacher now, though, he realized that the old elf was right – Grimmauld Place could be home. At least, it was a place to start, to get his bearings, to figure out his next move in a world where he no longer had to look over his shoulder for Death, in the form of a deranged and powerful Dark wizard, to claim him. Harry smiled. “Yes, Kreacher, I think I will come home soon. I don’t know exactly when, but I will come home.”

                Kreacher clapped his hands together with joy. “Kreacher very much looks forward to that day, Master Harry, and will waste no time preparing Grimmauld Place for your return! Kreacher will fetch Master Harry’s clothes now – they will be on your bed when you return from your shower!” With a crack, the elf Disapparated.

                Harry chuckled to himself as he set off for the shower. If an old, bitter house-elf could have such a remarkable change of heart, who else might do the same? Malfoy, perhaps?

                _Malfoy,_ thought Harry with a start, as he stepped under the steaming spray of the shower. He had not thought much of Draco or his parents since the battle. He may not ever have been fond of the blond Slytherin with the pointed face, but seeing Draco’s spirit so shattered as it had been while Voldemort commandeered Malfoy Manor had given Harry pause. Draco may be arrogant, self-centered, and even mean-spirited, but he was not truly evil – just a spoiled rich kid who was accustomed to getting his way no matter what, and by almost any means necessary. Over the past two years, though, that spoiled rich kid had been replaced by a frightened, nervous, and broken young man, forced into servitude by a maniac, paying for the sins of his father. Draco, like Harry, had been forced to grow up too soon, to see horrors no one should witness, no matter how old they are.  In that moment, standing under the streaming hot water, letting it penetrate his tired muscles and aching bones, Harry Potter actually felt sorry for Draco Malfoy. He looked up suddenly, wiping the water from his face, another realization dawning on him: He still had Draco’s wand. Should he give it back? With his own holly and phoenix-feather wand repaired, there was no reason to keep Draco’s hawthorn wand. He also doubted that even Draco would be arrogant enough to hex him with it if he did return it. The time for childish rivalries had passed. There was a society to rebuild, and both he and Draco were part of that society, for good or ill. Harry knew that he needed to give Draco his wand.

                Harry finished his shower and headed back to his room, grateful to Kreacher for the stack of clean clothes on his now-made bed. He dressed quickly and made a feeble attempt at combing his hair, giving up after a few halfhearted attempts. He pocketed his wand and Draco’s and headed for the common room, noting with a smile that Ron was still fast asleep. On the way downstairs he met Hermione coming out of the girls’ dormitory, bleary-eyed but looking rested.

                “I assume Ronald is still asleep?” she asked rhetorically.

                “Of course – you didn't expect otherwise, did you?”

                She sighed. “No, I suppose not. Is anyone else up there?”

                Harry raised an eyebrow at the girl whom he had always considered the sister he never had, wondering what she was getting at. “No, why do you ask?”

                Hermione blushed. “No reason,” she replied as she headed up the very stairs Harry had just come down. He watched her ascend the stairs, and said, “Oi, is Ginny still sleeping too?”

                Hermione turned around midway up the stairs, her face suddenly solemn. “Yes… she had a hard time getting to sleep, she was exhausted, and at one point I heard her crying, though it seemed to me she was trying to hide it. You should talk to her, but not now,” she said, noting the concern and guilt on her friend’s face. “Don’t beat yourself up, Harry. It’s not like you just sat around playing Wizard’s Chess yesterday – you were a bit busy. We all were,” she said wryly before continuing. “She wasn't upset with you. But she _is_ hurting, for many reasons. Let her sleep – but talk to her when she wakes up.”

                Harry smiled sadly. “Thanks, Hermione. I’m kicking myself for not being with her last night, but maybe it’s better that you were. Something tells me she needed a sister more than an exhausted boyfriend.”

                “Oh, I’m sure she would have been just fine with the exhausted boyfriend, too,” she said, a mischievous grin briefly tugging at the corners of her mouth, as she resumed her walk up the stairs to Harry and Ron’s room. Harry smiled, but it faded in his sadness. Of course Ginny was upset. She lost a brother, several friends, a former professor… Harry pushed all of that out of his mind. Thinking of Fred, Remus, and Tonks right now might shatter what little resolve he had left. He crossed the common room and went out the portrait hole, heading for the Great Hall and breakfast, his mind swimming with the events of the previous two days. How Lucius Malfoy had looked so broken and defeated in the forest, how Narcissa Malfoy had lied about Harry’s death in exchange for news of her son, how Draco nearly got them killed – and nearly died himself – in the Room of Requirement. Too much to process…

                Without realizing it, Harry’s feet had carried him all the way to the Great Hall. He pushed open the massive oak doors. Some of the damage had already been repaired to the walls and ceiling, which was an encouraging sight. The tables were sparsely populated, though Harry noted that it was still early. At the far end of what used to be the Slytherin table sat a thin, peaky blond man with his head bowed over a plate of untouched food. Harry felt a pang of pity for him as he crossed the hall and sat down across from him.

                “This is the Slytherin table, or have you forgotten, Potter?” the young man muttered, his head still bowed, though Harry did not hear the customary sneer in his voice.

                “I’m well aware of where I’m sitting, Malfoy. That doesn't matter right now. What matters is this,” he said, extending the hawthorn wand across the table. Draco looked up, first at the wand, then at Harry, who was surprised to see that Draco's eyes were bloodshot and wet.

                “You- you’re giving it back to me? Why? You took it from me, why would you give it back?” he asked, truly bewildered at this unexpected occurrence.

                Harry laid the wand on the table next to Draco’s plate and withdrew his hand. “I don’t need it anymore. I have my wand again. You should have yours back.”

                Draco picked up the wand and held it between his thumb and index finger, regarding it thoughtfully. Harry thought for a split second that the bitter Slytherin might actually hex him after all, for old times’ sake, and was relieved when Draco finally stowed it in his robes. He then fixed his gaze on Harry, and while not outright malevolent, there was no friendship in those steel-grey eyes. “Don’t think that this little act of altruism changes anything between us, Potter,” he said coldly.

                Harry returned his gaze, expressionless but unwavering. “I never thought that it would, Malfoy. I know that you and I will never be friends – too much has passed between us for that. But I do think that you and I can come to an understanding – a truce, if you will. You are many things, most of them unpleasant, but you are not evil. That I know. Neither is your mother. She lied about my death to Voldemort so she could find you, and that act, whether she intended it to or not, saved my life. So how about we lay aside the grudges, leave the past in the past, and just try to stay out of each others’ way from here on out. Deal?” he said, extending his hand.

                Malfoy didn't budge. “What about the Ministry? Surely there will be inquests, investigations into the role that I and my family played in this whole debacle, and they’re going to rely on you, their Golden Boy and savior, for all the sordid details. What are you going to tell them, Potter?”

                Harry withdrew his hand for the moment. “I’ll tell them the truth. I’ll tell them that your father was a voluntary Death Eater, but that you were pressed into the service of Voldemort against your will, and whatever you did since then was at Voldemort’s direction, and not of your own choosing. How does that sound?”

                Draco regarded Harry curiously. “Why would you do that? For me, of all people? You have the clout to have my whole family banished to Azkaban for the rest of our natural lives, and you wouldn't even have to lie to do it. Why spare us?”

                Harry sighed. Of course Draco was confused – mercy was not generally in a Slytherin's vocabulary. “You suffered enough. I saw that last year and this year. If we keep playing this ridiculous game of tit-for-tat, we’ll never be able to get on with our lives. This is not pity, Malfoy, this is called doing the right thing. Just accept it.” He offered his hand again. “Deal?” he repeated.

                Draco eyed him warily, then extended his own hand, grasping Harry’s firmly for a few seconds, then letting go quickly. “Deal, Potter. Now let’s get on with staying out of each others’ way, and let me enjoy my breakfast in peace,” he said resignedly.

                Harry smiled ruefully. “Of course,” he said, as he stood to leave and sit at the Gryffindor table, where the Weasley clan were just tucking in for breakfast themselves. As he walked away, Draco turned suddenly. “Potter?”

                Harry turned around. “Yes, Malfoy?” he said, eyebrow raised.

                Draco cleared his throat, and the hint of a blush colored his cheeks. “Thanks.”

                Harry smiled in understanding. “Anytime.”

 

* * *

 

                Harry sat down next to a solemn but dry-eyed Ginny, sitting a few seats away from her family at the Gryffindor table. Ginny eyed him curiously, and with a small nod of her head in Malfoy's direction, asked, “What was that all about?”

                Harry regarded her, the woman he now knew he loved with all his heart. “Just trying to move on with my life,” he said, a true smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

                Ginny returned the smile and murmured, “Am I included in that life, Mr. Potter?”

                Harry wrapped his arm about her shoulders and gazed into her dark brown eyes. “Ginny, you are the center of that life, and I hope that you will always be there with me.”

                Ginny returned his gaze with that blazing look that he cherished so much. “Good answer,” she replied, and drew him down into a kiss.


End file.
